Of that waylaying Light
by the wayward gospel
Summary: Dean has this thing. This Sammy thing.


**Disclaimer**: Don't own, just exorcising some demons. Just some big, sweaty, steamy, incestuous demons. And I might have to exorcise all night…

* * *

Dean has this _thing_. This _Sammy thing_. It's something that's always just been there and it's really not a big deal.

When Sam was little, Dean always needed to be a part of his space. He hated it when Sam wanted privacy or something to himself.

The first time Sam found out what his dick was for and tried to jerk off, Dean insisted on pressing along Sam's side in their shared motel bed. Sam tried to be all shy and embarrassed and whiny and "_Deeaaannn!_" about it, but Dean wasn't going to stand for any of that.

"C'mon, you little pervert. What, do I gotta show ya?" And though Dean had been perfectly willing to do just that, Sam had huffed his little put-upon sigh and slowly pushed his hand back down his boxers and resumed his curious strokes, if a little more awkward about it than he had been before Dean's tingling Sammy-senses had woken him.

But that wasn't good enough because Dean needed to see and know everything when it came to Sam. "You're not doing it right. Let me see!" They wrestled over Sam's boxers and Sam's petulant "Just leave me alone!" (and that was ridiculous because just _no!_) until Dean finally yanked them out of Sam's grip and pulled them down his knobby knees. Then Dean's chest tightened up and he could have purred in satisfaction because the sight of Sam's hard little dick and smooth, hairless balls was just another piece of his little brother that Dean could claim and mark and say "I know this, I have witnessed it, and now it's mine." Another Sammy-moment that he could roll around and go crazy in.

"Told ya you're not doing it right, dorkus."

"Am too." But Dean had already pushed Sam's hand off and replaced it with his own, because this was his anyway, so why not? Then any other complaints Sam might have had fell short because suddenly it was _too much, too much, too much_ and he didn't last even close to a minute, little boy spill on Dean's hand and stomach, because at some point, Sam had turned toward his center of gravity.

"Gross, dude!" Dean complained as he rubbed the evidence into the skin of his own chest and belly. He wanted to wear it like a trophy because it felt like a victory. Sammy's first orgasm and Sammy's first hand job. Those belonged to Dean now.

* * *

A few years later, he was pissed that he didn't get Sammy's first kiss (so stupid, he should have thought of that sooner!), but he teased and bullied the kid until he got every last detail out of him so he could relive it in his own imagination. And when Sam admitted that it was more of a fumbling accident for both him and Jenny Telson, it was like Christmas morning for Dean. He tumbled his brother onto the couch, straddled his hips, and then proceeded to lick his soul out of his mouth. Then rubbed him mercilessly through his jeans till he was sobbing into Dean's mouth and shooting in his pants. And Dean claimed his _official_ first kiss. Jenny Telson could fuck off and die.

* * *

Dean may not have been able to claim Sammy's first blow job, but at least he got to see it firsthand. And he definitely liked Katie Donaldson better than that bitch Jenny, because Katie was a straight up slut. A slut for cock and a slut for attention, as she had absolutely no qualms about kneeling down on the (really uncomfortable looking) bleachers, unzipping Sam's jeans, and swallowing down all that gorgeous Sammy-dick. With Dean sitting right next to him in the deserted school practice fields. Granted, the impressive joint they were all passing around might have had something to do with it. (Because if Sammy wanted to know what it was like to check out for a bit, like hell was he doing it with anyone but his big brother. Katie just better count her lucky stars that she got to witness it.) As soon as Sam forgot the need to breathe, Dean climbed in behind him and eased him back against his chest – he had taught the kid everything from using the potty to tying his shoes, no reason why his first blow job would be any different. He rested his chin in the crook of Sam's neck so he would have a clear view of the main attraction between Sam's legs, then rucked his little brother's shirt up under his arms and pushed his thighs wider, encouraging the lucky bitch to take him deeper, petting his fingers through the soft hair trailing down from Sam's navel. Dean took another hit off the joint and then guided Sam's mouth to his own to shotgun him, whispering smoke and devotion against his lips. God, he looked so good all messed up.

Dean snuffled into that little secret place behind Sam's ear to breathe in the deep, concentrated scent of _Sammy_. That was all for him and Katie wasn't going to know about it. Although, in an offhand way, Dean would maybe admit that he was impressed. Sammy was no less well-endowed than himself, and yet he could see her throat working around that beautiful cockhead.

As Sam arched into a tense bow, one giant hand clenched around the back of Dean's neck like a tether, Dean ran his fingers up the taut form and tickled across Sam's ribs. Then roughly ground the heels of his palms against his nipples. Sam chocked on a scream and buried his face into Dean's neck as he went off the handles and released all his tension into the anonymous mouth. Because at some point, maybe from the beginning, she had ceased to be a part of this. Instead, Dean basked in the trembles and shudders, feeling them as his own as Sam unconsciously squeeze-released-squeeze-released his thigh in rhythm with the pulses of his orgasm – determined to hold onto his big brother through the whole ride. Dean hummed in bone-deep satisfaction and mouthed along the soft skin exposed at Sam's neckline. He could feel volcanic puffs of air against his neck, wet lips dragging against his skin and as much as he bitched and whined about it like a little girl, Dean knew Sam was just as hopeless and consumed with Dean's _thing_ as Dean was himself.

He couldn't stop smiling as he reached a warm hand down to cup Sam's balls and help him float a while longer in the aftershocks. With the other hand, he swiped his thumb across Katie's bottom lip and lifted the smear of come to his own mouth, sucking and licking off every last trace. It was so fucking good.

* * *

Dean got through the horrific timespan of Sam's college years with the memory of Sam finally popping his cherry. And just like the little geek-boy that he was, of course he finally scored big off his prom date of all things – Heather Lacey. And no, Dean doesn't find it weird that he can accurately recall the names and faces of every single one of the girls that have been allowed to share some aspects of his baby brother's formative experiences, but cannot for the life of him remember what the hell the name of that waitress he went home with on Thursday was. Suzie, Shelley, Stacey, something or other. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that Sam didn't offer to turn on the light when he and Heather stumbled through the doorway because he knew Dean was sprawled in a chair in the far corner of the room. What matters is that Sam got Heather on her hands and knees across the bed, so that she couldn't see Dean step up behind them. What matters is that Dean framed Sammy's waist with his hands and guided his thrusts with his own hips. What matters is that when Sammy's eyes rolled back into his head, Dean licked the ecstasy out of his mouth.

Thank God Heather got off on being used fast and dirty (and was maybe drunk enough to courteously pass out right after), because Sam and Dean were too wrapped up in their own muffled cocoon to pay her any mind.

* * *

When Dean finally got his little brother back from that big, ugly _other_ world, neither of them could ignore the fact that Dean's _thing_ had twisted and changed. It grew hooks and claws and latched on in every way it could. Because Sam had had something separate. Something away from Dean and now there were too many things Dean didn't _know_. So he broke and smashed and yelled and screamed, then made Sam come in his mouth as he forced out every minute detail, every insignificant little memory that he could recount, anything that Dean could take in as _Sammy_. But dammit, it hurt. It hurt so badly because Dean didn't get to calm him down, because it wasn't the end of the world when a midterm came back with a B-. Didn't get to make fun of him when Sam thought about rushing a fraternity for a whole minute. Didn't to see how giddy Sammy was after his first date with Jess.

Dean wanted to tear something bloody.

Then Sam turned around and threw it all back, bruised and bloodied Dean as he raged, his fury exploding with all the things Dean threw away on others instead of giving them to Sam to be treasured and adored. And in the storm of Sam, Dean came twice in blinding torrents and then he finally understood this _thing_.

* * *

It is an explosive thing, a dangerous thing, but it's not really a big deal. It's Dean's and he's handling it just fine.

* * *

But maybe sometimes, like right now, Dean needs a hit of that dirty, wonderful _thing_ because sometimes he comes too close to losing Sam again and that _thing_ needs to know that Sam is right here, Dean has him, and every_thing_ that is Sam is Dean.

Fresh off a hunt that they hadn't even gone looking for and it takes Dean exactly 17 minutes to floor it from the burning ruin of that house to their motel. As soon as the door is open, he has Sam shoved down onto the closest bed and he's frantically working at his own jeans. And dammit it's frustrating, because the world is moving too slowly and everything's working against him and he needs these fucking clothes off and he needs to feel Sam, needs to touch and smell and taste and know everything. Needs to know that everything is still right here, still whole and breathing and alive and Sammy. _Sammy_.

When the obstacles are finally gone, he's clambering on top of Sam, pushing him down and spreading him out for Dean to map and wander. He pushes Sam's shirt up and out of the way so he can lay his ear to his chest, listen to the reverberating _whumpwhump – whumpwhump_ of that most beloved sound. Then he scrambles up further to his little brother's neck and opens his mouth around the fluttering pulse, not sucking or kissing, just simply letting it jump and dance against his tongue. He can feel Sam's fingers burrowing and tunneling in his hair, trying to settle him, but it's really not going to work because he needs too much right now. Needs all of it.

With a willing and pliant Sammy, this would be easier – and probably a lot sexier – but Sam has suddenly reverted into 12-year-old gangly limbs and elbows. After several floppy fish moments, Dean has finally wrangled his ginormous little brother out of his own clothes and slams him flat on his back again. And then Dean really lets that _thing_ loose.

There's so much, and it's all for him, all there for Dean to have and hold and bind to him and no one else. He's like a kid on a sugar high, bouncing from here to there, fluttering stomach to delicate thigh, sharp hip to sensitive inner elbow. He can't stay too long in one spot, has to see and experience and know everything right now.

But then, when he's finally visited every last square inch, then he goes back to savor the journey.

He traces the delicate webbing in between each finger, follows the whorls and patterns of a palm. Licks across the gossamer skin of wrist, forearm, and bicep. He stuffs his face into the heated cavern of an armpit – Sam squirms and whines, but Dean pinches his side because he will not be denied this.

_Sammy. Sammy. Sammy._

He laps and drinks from the hollow at his throat, spans across the rugged planes of shoulders and chest, slides down rung after rung of ladder-ribs, then teases and swirls into the pool of Sam's navel. Sam's panting and spasming in aborted jerks and arches, broken _hmms_ and _ahhhs_ that have gone needy and pitchy as Dean mouths hosannas against the veined petal-flesh of his severely rigid dick, devoutly suckling at the satin weight of his balls.

He fumbles Sam over onto his stomach, takes only a second to appreciate this new frontier, before dipping down to drag his stubbled cheek across the expanse of Sam's exposed back, inhaling the vulnerable scent in the valley of his spine and sucking great bruises into the pliable skin at the curve of his ass. Dean smiles briefly at the image of a giant marker planted here to proclaim the 'territory of Dean'. The ass-hickeys are a good alternative though. And maybe some nice red handprints too. Yeah, those will look very nice.

Sam arches up into each hard smack until his ass is glowing and hot. Dean doesn't even realize he's been rambling this whole time.

"Fucking mine, Sammy. All mine. Everything. All of it. This nice, red ass and that big dick. Even your stupid fucking hair. Mine, mine, _mine_!" Everything punctuated with a satisfying slap of ass.

And Sam fucking loves it. Goes nuts for it. He's just bowed up like a bitch in heat, nodding dumbly, mumbling, "yeah, yeah, yeah."

When Dean's hand is finally as sore as the ass he's punishing, he pulls Sam's hips up higher and takes a delectable cheek in each hand. It's Dean's hot breath ghosting across Sam's entrance that finally shakes him out of the fog a bit to regain some anxiety. "Dean, m'gross." There's a little bit of a blush involved that tinges the cheeks on his face almost the same color as the ones gripped in Dean's hands.

And yes, they're both pretty gross at this point, running and fighting and bleeding. There was no small amount of sweat, blood, and guts on this hunt. But Dean just growls in warning and squeezes Sam's ass sharply before spreading him even wider and moving in to take a slow, deep lick. Sam shuts up then and face plants into the mattress with an obscene groan.

Dean uses two fingers to spread the furled entrance wider and then lays his tongue flat against it. He can feel the muscles dance and flirt against his tongue, trying to seduce it in. Dean gives it a sloppy kiss, but doesn't take it up on its invitation. They're pretty gross after all.

He rolls Sam back over onto his back and moves into the cradle of the thighs that have opened so willingly for him. Like coming home. He fits his own stone-dick in next to Sammy's in the hot, wet sleeve of their bodies then just fucking goes to town. If he wasn't so far gone, he'd take the time to open Sam up, get him all wet and loose and then fuck him through the mattress. But he's dancing on a glass edge as it is; Sam's no better, so he just needs to take.

Dean thrusts, snaps, and rolls his hips mercilessly, relentlessly, and the headboard is smashing into the wall over and over, gouging great pits into the plaster. Sam is practically sobbing, just a debauched mess, as he grips Dean's ass in his hands, draws his knees up higher, and urges Dean tighter and harder.

"Such a slut. Such a slut for me. Aren't you Sammy? Such a fucking…ah fuck – fuck…yeah – fucking slut. I'm gonna make you come all over yourself." Dean hooks one of Sam's knees and pulls it higher around his waist, then leans his weight to the other side on his forearm and grinds hard and dirty against that sweet dick. Sam whines and begs incoherently.

"You gonna come? You gonna come like I tell you and be a good boy? You better. You better fucking come right n-" Dean doesn't even get to finish before great jets of come are shooting into the slight space between them, streaking Sam's stomach, chest, splattering his neck, chin, and jaw, and beautifully, devastatingly, painting his lips, cheeks, and tongue. Before Sam can catch his breath, close his mouth, Dean is chasing the sweet, bitter essence in. He's drinking it right back out of Sam.

Dean picks up his pace, frantically fucking against Sam, slipping and sliding in the mess between their bellies, even though he's trying to hold back with all his might. God, he's never going to come, never wants to cross that finish line. Fuck blue balls, he just wants to hang in this buzzing, desperate limbo, all tangled up in orgasmic little brother. It's too good and once it's over, Dean spends every second trying to claw his way back. But then Sam is slipping his hand down and pressing two fingers firmly against his hole.

That line hits him hard, like a fucking freight train.

When he comes back, a few millennia later, he's sprawled across a ragdoll baby brother. All giant noodle limbs. He'd move, but he knows that Sam enjoys the anchoring weight, likes being held in place. Plus, he likes the idea of a Sammy bed.

They're now even grosser, drying sweat and come gluing them together and Dean can't think of a more wonderful idea. He lifts his head slightly to find Sam just barely awake. His eyes are glassy and he's wearing a big, lazy cat grin. Dean smirks back then leans in to kiss him soft and sweet with his eyes open. Just like Sam likes.

Because Sam has this _thing_.

* * *

_Wincest completes me, fills me up, and makes me whole. No, like seriously. There's nothing else I need in life. But if you click that little button down there, it's just like the whipped cream, sprinkles, and goddamn cherry on top. So please review and thanks for reading! _


End file.
